Shards of Time
by Bandita-Dieci
Summary: A collection of one-shots detailing Jessica Rabbit's life and her interactions with characters from various animated industries.
1. Black Bird

_Author's Note:_ I've got a bunch of little one-shot drabbles about Jessica and I figured, instead of posting them individually as I've been doing, it'd be easier to collect them into one longer document. The rating is more for the _worst_ offenders; there will be at least one that's fairly safe as a whole - I'll probably post it next. I hope to make updates once a week, but we'll see about that.

Also - these will have crossovers with other works. For instance, this particular snapshot - which lives up to the M rating - features Haruko from _FLCL_.

Furthermore, I should note that I do not own Jessica Rabbit, Haruko, _FLCL_, or _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_ - and that's okay.

* * *

She sits still on the edge of the bed, her emerald eyes closed, bare hands flat on the white sheets. If she wasn't a Toon, she might shiver in her exposed skin, but as it is, she feels nothing. Behind her another woman lies sprawled on her side with one hand tucked under her pillow. She breathes soft and light, not snoring as some of the humans tend to do in their sleep, and snuggles tighter under her scarlet comforter. Jessica knows her movements and her mannerisms far too well and also knows that if she wants to leave and return to her job, as her owner demands she do, now would be the time to do it. It doesn't matter that the woman paid for a full night; her time was up as soon as she fell into a deep sleep.

But the Toon hesitates a second too long before moving, and the creak of the bed springs gives her away.

"Jess…ica?"

She knows better than to grimace even as her breath hitches in her throat.

"Are you…are you leaving me?"

Her training kicks in.

"No, my dear, of course not," she croons, and without a second glance to her scattered clothes, she turns back to the bed, the seductress slipping back into place. One hand reaches over to brush the other woman's cheek, lifting strands of pink hair out of her face. "I'm right here."

For a moment, all is well, and that might have been enough to soothe her. Then the savage beast takes over, slapping away her gentle touch, yellow eyes bright and glaring at her. "You're lying. You always leave, even when I tell you not to." Her words growl to a halt, canines sharp against her light lips. A thin grin pulls at her lips; she beckons. "Come here, love. I still need you."

_I still own you._

The small of her back aches.  
Her lips throb.  
Fingers shy away; nails, _teeth_ rip into her painted skin.

She whispers, "I love you," and the Toon is left to wonder.

If this is what love is…  
…she's had worse.


	2. Stovetop

_Author's Note:_ This one is rated G for General Audiences (or K on here, right?). You can imagine this stove as the one from Disney's _Beauty and the Beast_ if you want, but it could be a different stove, too.

* * *

Let me paint you a picture.

First off - imagine Jessica in jeans - form-fitting jeans, to be sure, but jeans nevertheless. Add to that a simple sailor-type shirt that ties in the front - but a soft, light buttermilk yellow with the occasional white highlighting. Top all that off with a frilly floral apron - white with light pinks, yellows, and blues - her sleeves rolled up about her elbows, her long red hair pulled back into a ponytail, bare feet dancing on the kitchen tiles as she hums along to a swing tune, her cheeks rosy from the peace and happiness she feels in her own home, locks of her hair falling into one eye as she works—

This is how she looks on her days off, when she's free, for once, to do whatever she wants and she has the energy to do more than sit in her bed and curl up with a good book, when she's actually convinced herself to go into the human marketplace and grocery stores early in the morning before anyone else is awake and deal with their leering, wandering eyes, when her desires for what she wants for her live overcome her passive, submissive tendencies.

The Rabbit brushes her hair back with one hand and peers over the recipe, one finger tracing the various ingredients and their measurements - all of which she had - before moving on to the directions for the recipe itself. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the instructions for the cake's topping: _"…melt in a saucepan over medium heat…."_

_Well, there went _that_idea._

She nibbled on her bottom lip and glanced over at the stack of pineapples, the bags of flour and sugar, and the sweet sticks of butter lingering just out of reach. It would have been just fine if she didn't have to use the Dip-blasted stove. Her eyes shifted back to the stovetop, to the pots and pans hanging just above her head - a feat in and of itself, given her height - dishes that she'd yet to use since moving into this house simply because—

_It was one time. You won't catch the house on fire this time. And even if you do, it's a Toon house. It'll probably just snap back._

_…or stay on fire forever, like the last one did._

Jessica breathed deep, holding it for a moment, then let it out. She would have to get over it eventually. Yes, there were a lot of wonderful recipes that used the oven - ones that she had and would continue to spend hours perfecting - but there were just as many, if not _more_, that used the stove, ones that she would lose forever if she never got past this.

It wasn't like the fire particularly hurt her, anyway.

With a sudden burst of inspiration, Jessica took the frying pan from its precarious position and placed it on a burner. There. No harm done…yet. Now all she had to do was turn the thing on. That couldn't be too hard, could it? Jessica turned the dial, listening for the clicks that indicated the lighter working.

Nothing happened.

Well, gas flooded the room, but since she could hold her breath for an inordinately long amount of time, that wasn't really an issue.

She bent forward until she faced the stove. "Look, I know you don't like me, but couldn't you comply? Just this once?" One finger reached out, stroking just beneath the stove's chin. The metal began to glow a bright red at her touch, and she smiled with the slightest hint of her seduction. "Pretty p-p-p-please?"

Then she winked and the stove's lighter clicked on.

Flames flicked under the frying pan - _Success!_ - and then spread to the rest of the gas in the room. For a moment Jessica felt a cold stab of hatred towards the stove, her eyes turned downward in a glare—

Then the house exploded.

…fortunately Toon houses would put themselves back together. Still - she had no desire to use the stove again any time soon.


	3. Nukedashitette

_Author's Note:_ ...in which Bandit attempts song-fic. (The song is _Naruko no Hana_ - for which I do not own the copyright. It's _technically_ only the short version; the real song has another verse, another chorus, and another reiteration of the first chorus - but that's beside the point.)

This chapter features Miyo Takano from _Higurashi no Naku Koro ni_ (...who I also do not own). In later posts, I will most likely only be referring to her as Miyoko Tanashi (or variations thereof) due to headcanons on how she might work off of _Higurashi_'s set.

It also should be noted that some of the assumptions Jessica makes here are _wrong_.  
...debatable whether that'll get elaborated on in a future chapter or not.

* * *

_"Saa, wasuremashou sono mirai ga__  
__Mata chinurarete yuku nante..."_

Foreign words roil in the Rabbit's mouth, taste like lemons on her tongue. The moon's silver glow sets her part of the world in shadow and paints soft waves on the ocean's surface. One bare foot arches to touch the water, and its cold sheen curves to meet her just like any man or mistress might.

Her hair traces her face, as always, and it hangs over one shoulder, revealing a taut back beneath a lacy white shirt. Underneath the shirt, one can see the faintest traces of another, red top, but the rest shows nothing but pale skin. It doesn't leave much to the imagination.

With emerald eyes closed, she remembers.

_"Namanurui kaze toguro o maitara__  
__Sore ga tabun aizu."_

_The chilly wind shivers up her spine before moving to caress the left of her face. A woman with warm hands draws on one sleeve of her sweater, rosy lips press against the corner of her mouth. She rests her head on her breast._

_Sand hitches into the oils of her paint, leaves little dents and crevices along the otherwise flawless design of her skin, and the salt of the water laps against the soles of her feet. The blonde lies very still against her, and she allows herself free reign to stroke her thin hair. Amber eyes open, search her face, but the Rabbit focuses somewhere else, anywhere else._

_Just because this one isn't making the most of her money doesn't mean she has to appreciate her._

_"Nukedashitette!"_

_This she hisses in her sleep, startling the redhead awake. Her ears crane for the next sound, the next word, and when it is repeated, she realizes that the woman is speaking in her own, foreign tongue. She cannot know what she is saying. It is too private for that._

_But the woman's tears sting her ink._

_"Nukedashitette—__  
__Nukedashitette kanashisugiru unmei kara!"_

At first her voice whispers the song, hushed as the ocean waves beating against the shore, but now she spits the words, hungry for the venom of them.

**_"Anata wa naraku no hana ja_****_nai!"_**

Every now and again, a person from her past returns to her, whether they simply pass her along the street or are involved with her in an act of some sort - a short or something at the Ink and Paint Club. Only once did she personally seek out a customer from that era, although she could not have said why. Perhaps she was curious like the cat with which she often identified - more so than the Rabbit she'd become.

But the blonde she sought had faded in their time apart.

_"Sonna basho de sakanaide.__  
__Sakanaide!__  
__Karametorarete ikanaide!_"

One pale hand taps her shoulder, but the Rabbit refuses to open her eyes. Just because she strongly imagines something doesn't make it real. The hand lingers until a weight leans against her side, a head rests against her shoulder. She smells of cherry blossoms and honeysuckle - sweet, alluring, and full of regret.

Her voice does not choke on the next words, even though the cold of a ghost sits beside her, nuzzling her painted skin with the tip of her nose.

_"Oto mo naku tobikau toki no kakera."_


	4. New York

_Author's Note:_ Color this as a Modern Day AU...ish, featuring a cameo - Bernardo from _West Side Story_. (Don't worry - next week's is back to normal.)

* * *

The first time she heard the snaps and catcalls, the Rabbit wasn't afraid. She'd dealt with such atrocities before her move, and she expected more of the same here - her body and looks almost demanded them. So when they began once again, she continued walking like normal, the bag of groceries in her hand, and even as the men grew closer, she just clutched the paper sack tighter.

It wasn't going to happen here.  
It wasn't going to happen _again.__  
__ Period._

_A hand touched her forest green sweater, tightened on her arm. Sharp intake of breath. She turned to him, smile tight and plastered on, his eyes dark and hungry as he licked his lips. Her hand on his, pulling it off, nails digging in._

_Men like jackals. Men that howled, hooted, leered, jeered, cajoled. His eyes flickering, angry, pained._

_She ran._

Cold concrete beneath her. Blood dribbling from a split lip. Hands on her wrists.

At least this time she could say she fought them.

They pushed one of their members forward, and he glanced at her, wide blue eyes skimming the surface. His knife shook in his hand. The Rabbit knew better than to spit at him, knew that it would only make matters worse. She'd be his first, no doubt - not easy, perhaps, but enough to get by. He wouldn't be through quickly, but a girl could hope, couldn't she?

She closed her eyes.

Sounds of a struggle, a scurry, and the hands on her wrists began to slip. When she finally opened her eyes, there was no one there but one man, his knuckles bloody, flipping his own knife shut. She took a deep breath, waiting, and when he moved forward, one hand outstretched, she backed away. His eyes narrowed in concern.

_I do believe he just saved my life._

Jessica stood, uncertain, and stepped forward, one foot in front of the other. She was missing a shoe - the one she'd hopelessly used as a weapon. For a moment, she just stood there, wrapping one arm around her waist and gripping the other.

_"Thank you."_


	5. Nightmares

Jessica's eyes snapped open, her breathing quick and panicky. It took a moment for her to realize where she was - in bed, at home, and, apparently, crying. She raised one hand to wipe her cheek.

_It was just a dream. Only a—_

Her heart froze in her chest until she turned to face the still sleeping figure beside her. She let out a slow breath. He was still there, curled up on one side, long ears flopping on either side of his face.

Even seeing him there, knowing he was breathing by the way his chest moved, didn't stop the anxiety. It lingered there like a newborn chick in its nest, unwilling to fly. Jessica let one hand wander over her husband's soft fur, caressing one of his ears until a lopsided grin appeared on his face. The simple act stilled the rapid beating of her heart.

Very carefully, Jessica shifted her body to frame against his, letting his head rest against her chest as she curled around him. She nuzzled his forehead with her nose, her hand still tracing his long ear before moving into his rougher orange hair. It was too early - or too late - to wake him or to think of anything other than sleep, so she closed her eyes once more.

As long as she woke up with Roger by her side, the bad dreams didn't matter.


	6. Failure

_Author's Note:_ Apologies on this one taking so long to be posted. I...actually completely forgot. I'm so sorry.

* * *

Failure is an interesting word.

Most of the time, failure is expected to have a certain connotation: a person _tried_ to do something and _failed_ to do so - not necessarily through any fault of their own. Perhaps they simply had an inability to do the thing. You can't ask a toaster to slice bread, after all, unless it's a Toon toaster and happens to have hands or can morph its body shape as needed. But Toons…that's going outside of the realm of normality to begin with.

What matters, of course, is that implication - that the person _tried_, that there was an _attempt_ at something more than what they are currently living and being - that there was a _struggle_ and, in the end, a _loss_.

Ironically enough, this is the _second_ definition of the word. The first definition deals with technicalities - an inability to perform, which denotes a break from the usual pattern, or a _breaking under stress._ One could almost say that this is the most interesting of the two when looking at a character - or, no, better, to combine the two - this gives the idea of the struggle and the fact of the failure isn't that _she couldn't maintain the action_ but that the stress got to her and _she gave up and broke down._

It gives the what and the how but not the why.

Steinbeck wrote once that it is easy to say she was bad, but there is little meaning unless we know why. Let us rephrase that sentence and apply it here: It is easy to say she failed, but there is little meaning unless we know why.

Jessica sits in her dressing room, a handful of photographs in her hands. Her thumb brushes the crinkled edge of one, and she begins to flip through them, shuffling them, the way films are made - one picture after another, rapidly, rapidly, until they are less like individual photos and more like one long, continuous movie, a Toon, replaying her greatest regret over and over.

She made the wrong choice, and someone ended up dead for it.

The Rabbit winces as she looks at Acme and his glee, at her own feigned faces, and in a sudden movement, she throws the photos against away. They slap against the wall, flutter to the ground, and she lets out a huff. That didn't do any good, burning them won't do any good, and no matter what she does, those images will remain etched into her painted skull. She still feels his old, wrinkling hands on hers, the shock of the buzzer against her smooth skin.

For too long, Acme came after her, seeking to break her, and every time, with the most stalwart of emotions, she'd said no. When she married Roger, she'd promised herself to one man, one Toon, one Rabbit and him alone for the rest of her life. She _meant_ what she said, and the blubbering fool of a man knew that. Perhaps, when another company owned her, he could do what he liked with her, but now….

He probably thought that she'd changed her mind, when the truth was anything but. Acme, at least, had been noble - never using his ownership of Toontown to force or coerce her into anything she didn't want. But Maroon—

Acme may have owned Toontown before his death, but Maroon owned the studios. If he blacklisted Roger, that was as good as killing him. He could too easily force her to do his every whim, and he took advantage of that - of _her._

Perhaps there were other venues, or at least, there might have been. But with pressure at every angle, pressure coming towards Roger, who deserved absolutely **none** of it—

She snapped.

The Toon leans against her dresser, head down, unwilling to so much as look herself in the eye. She tells herself that there was simply no other option, not if she wanted to save Roger, but in her heart she knows this to be a lie. Her gloved hands tighten on the dresser's edge.

The worst of it is knowing that, if the situation happens again, she'll choose the same thing every time.

She _will_ do anything for him, even if it means hurting him.


	7. Modern Friendship

_Author's Note:_ I would like to extend this at some point in time... I'm just not sure when, exactly.

Miyoko Tanashi is Miyo Takano from _Higurashi no Naku Koro ni_. That's the name she had before changing it for her adoptive grandfather, and in Toon world, I think that's the one that Toon!Miyoko would rather use. (For miscellaneous reasons I'd rather not get into here.)

But, yeah, don't own her _or_ Jess, unfortunately.

* * *

The Rabbit wakes up with a splitting headache, throbbing thighs, and hell in her abdomen and stifles a groan.

Just like clockwork.

She massages her head with one hand, as if that would help anything, and makes to get up off the lumpy couch, only to be stopped by the dead weight atop her. Another stifled groan. _What was I doing last night?_

One hand lifts the turquoise patchwork quilt wrapped around her, revealing a blonde woman lying against her, head resting on her chest. At the sudden influx of cooler air, the woman winces and curls closer, tightening the arm she'd wrapped around Jessica's waist. The Rabbit stared at the woman, trying to force her memories to align together out of the foggy haze of sleep, and blinked a couple of times. _Who...?_

The quilt drops back into place, and Jessica rubs a hand on her face then pushes it through her hair. _This is why I don't sleep around. It gets so confusing first thing in the morning._

Her body cramps, her teeth grit together, and that's it. She pushes herself back, trying to untangle herself from the other woman without waking her, and eases off of the couch until her bare feet touch the hardwood floor. Now, if she could just find the bathroom – _now_, because if she waits any longer she's going to tear herself apart—

"Hey, lady." She taps the woman's ankle and the blonde snaps up, looking around in shock. Her amber eyes caught sight of Jessica, and a pink flush brushed across her cheeks. _Yes, I have that effect, sorry._

"Where's your bathroom?"

The blonde points to the hallway. "Third door on your right."

"Thanks."

_One long shower later..._

Jessica ruffles her bright red hair, just to let it know that volume will be an acceptable thing when it dries, and exits the bathroom. Down the hallway, her eyes alight on the blonde once more, sitting at a four-person wooden table, eating an omelet. The woman beckons her forward, proffering her a piece of toast and a glass of milk. "You should eat something before you leave."

"Milk ruins my vocal chords."

"Then at least eat the toast. It'll help."

The redhead stares at the bread then back to the woman. "I don't want to cost you anything."

She laughs – a stifled giggle, but it's there nevertheless. "You just took a hell of a shower, and you 'don't want to cost me anything.'"

"Point taken." Jessica steps forward and sits at the other end of the table, pressing her lips together first. "But I'd like your name first."

The woman raises an eyebrow but doesn't make any snide remark. Maybe this was her game – finding singers in bars and taking them home just to cuddle then send them out into the world again with nothing to go on. Her fingers fiddle with the cloth napkin in her lap.

"Tanashi. Miyoko Tanashi."

Jessica takes the proffered toast. "Pleasure to meet you, Miyoko."


	8. Dancing

"So what do I do?"

Voice listless, eyes empty, looking at anything but him.

Her owner pulls his pants back up, buttons them. He situates a cigarette in his mouth. "Same thing you always do."

She presses wet lips together. "She wants me at a dinner."

"So?"

"I don't know how to-"

"Act your pretty little ass off, bitch." He flicks cigarette ash into her rumpled hair.

She doesn't flinch.

He steps forward, grabs her chin, and pushes her lips against his; his other hand gropes, squeezes her bare flesh, trimmed nails digging into the painted skin. The stubble on his face feels scratchy - focusing on that, she can ignore his tongue in her mouth.

"You're not acting."

She allows herself the slightest moment of response, ignoring the heat of his cigarette on her cheek. It won't leave a mark. It never does.

When he's done, he flings her away.

She gathers what little strength she has - any inkling of a personality she might once have had - and asks, "What if there's dancing?"

He hesitates, copper eyes darkening. "Out of the question. She didn't pay for that."

"And if she asks-"

"You tell her to fuck off," he growls. She nods, complacent, but he doesn't see it, glancing at his watch. A grin, like a wolf. He tips his hat - "Plenty of time." - and steps towards her again, cracking his knuckles.

She closes her eyes and leans forward.


End file.
